autumn stories: 1980, under the blankets (NC17)

Rating: NC17
Summary: When it's cold, getting under the blankets is a good way to warm up. Companion to 'On the Blankets' because that was just too much of a downer, right? So here is a happy fic! For scarvesnhats Day 13.

The cold that slaps him in the face when he enters his flat makes Sirius smile. Remus has become frighteningly back-to-nature of late; where he walks (barefoot, of course) no windows remain shut, no curtain stays drawn. Sirius sheds shoes, coat, bag as he moves down the corridor to the bedroom, noting on the way that his bathroom has been thoroughly debauched.

The glass doors to the balcony are hooked open. The sunset light makes the trees of the park opposite look like torches, shimmering in the wind. The side window is also open and illuminates the bed. Sirius pauses a moment in appreciation.

Remus is curled up, sleeping and naked or naked and sleeping, Sirius can’t decide which ought to take precedence. The light is that perfect gold that comes before a spectacular sunset, and Remus looks like an angel fallen to earth. Not that he will ever say such a thing. Not that Remus will behave like an angel. Rather the opposite, or so he hopes.

Remus can never sleep covered: sheets and blankets are repelled from him by a force as powerful as magnetism. The bed shows signs of this epic struggle. The blanket has been twisted into submission under Remus, and he has wrapped himself around it in a way that makes Sirius jealous of scratchy bluish wool.

Sirius undoes the top two buttons of his shirt and pulls it over his head, hanging it on the peg. He drops the blinds on the window and his trousers as well, hanging them over his shirt. For a werewolf, Sirius thinks, Remus is not nearly hairy enough. His own legs are quite hairy (‘My furry little problem?’ he recalls Remus saying to James, ‘what about his?’) but he has escaped the Black back-hair curse, the only thing he is grateful to his mother for. He is getting goose bumps already, standing around in socks and vest and shorts, but in for a galleon, in for a knut (well, in for several knuts, hopefully). Underthings in the hamper, and he crosses to the bed.

Remus is watching him; has been watching him, and is smiling.

“Budge over,” Sirius says, and Remus does, but not so far that Sirius doesn't have to rub against him as he slips under the rumpled blanket that Remus kicks over them carelessly.

“Hello,” Remus says. “Didn’t mean to take such a long nap.”

“Don’t I always tell you it’s dangerous to fall asleep in strange men’s beds?”

“Mm—who knows what might happen to me?”

“Something horrible, I’m sure.” Remus winds himself around Sirius, who can’t help hissing a little. “You’re like ice.”

“You’re hot,” Remus counters, his mouth pressing into the hollow of Sirius’ throat. “Your hands are like fire.” Sirius slides one hot hand down the leg wrapped around him, traces the hard round bones of his ankle, and then strokes upwards again. Remus is sucking on his ear, using teeth and tongue to turn his earrings in their holes ("Three is overkill," he’d said, but Remus had gone ahead and put them in anyway). It is highly distracting, not to mention arousing; he wants that clever tongue in any number of other places. His hand traces a path around to stroke the inside of Remus’ thigh, and Remus thrusts against him with a frustrated groan.

They are, Sirius thinks, getting good at being lovers. There are hundreds of ways in which the awkward fumbling and terrible mistakes that they have endured over the past few months might have caused them to call everything off, to never see each other again. He thinks it is partly because of Remus’ baffling sense of humour ("You’ve got to admit, it is pretty funny," he remembers Remus laughing in his ear) and partly because they know each other so well in other ways that learning the physical seems a natural succession.

Remus despises sugar in his tea; he can be totally paralysed with laughter when tickled just behind the knees.

He reads to Sirius every night before bed because he is secretly appalled that their childhoods were so different; he has freckles in the most surprising places, and they are more obvious when he is tanned, although this is counterintuitive.

He is embarrassed each and every time Sirius finds him singing and dancing in the bathroom, but yet never shuts the door entirely, which Sirius has filed as simply one of the mysteries of the universe. They have tried every variation of sex that they can think of (even the things that Remus thought were pretty funny, and those that Sirius had absolutely dreaded until he discovered that he actually enjoyed them very, very much), and Remus still insists that he doesn’t have any preferences, really. Remus’ only kink that Sirius has discovered so far is a fascination with his earrings; after all the things he's heard from James about Lily, he considers himself lucky.

Remus strokes Sirius now with a lazy, teasing rhythm, and he cocks an eyebrow. They speak in shorthand—"You?" "No, you" "Where’s—" "Here" "No, wait" "There"—and Remus is spread beneath him, one hand guiding him, and Sirius pushes in, slow and careful despite fingernails biting into his arse.

He loves to see Remus impatient, loves to know that Remus wants him, loves all the small noises Remus makes that escape his clenched teeth. They are both the victims of proper upbringings and are incapable of talking dirty in bed (after the last unsuccessful attempt, Remus had mocked Sirius for weeks—"Put the kettle on for tea, and, oh yes, fuck me harder, slut"—until Peter overheard him once and he was properly mortified). So, until they reach the point of total nonverbal lust, they are excruciatingly polite to each other, all “please” and “yes” and “would you” and “excuse me” and “sorry” (although as they get better there are fewer “sorry”s). “Please,” Remus is saying now, again and again, and Sirius thinks this is good.

Remus reaches up and pulls Sirius’ head down for a kiss that’s wet and desperate, breathless and seeking; and then his head snaps back and he bites his lip hard as he comes. There is blood on his mouth but he is breathing hard, eyes shut, and oblivious. Sirius can’t help himself: he fucks Remus harder, until he collapses on top of him in his own release. Then he kisses Remus again, tasting blood and sweat, and he is complete.

The sunset is long gone; the air carries more than a little of the sharpness of winter, especially now that the wind is more insistent. Nearly every surface of his skin touches and is touched by Remus. Sirius blows out a breath that billows white, and smiles. He can’t imagine any happiness greater than that found here, under the shabby rumpled blanket.

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